I have to jump a couple of houses here and tell you that the worst place I ever lived, absolutely the dirtiest filthiest place, was King Street. A rat died in the living room at King Street and we didn’t know. There was at least six inches of compacted crap between our feet and the floor. Old Ratty must have crawled in there and died of pleasure. A visitor uncovered him while groping about for a beer. I don’t want to go into detail on King Street yet but remind me later to tell you about the open door policy in the toilet, and the pubic hair competition and how the kitchen got so bad we had to do all of our cooking in the back yard.
You shouldn’t get the idea that all share houses are like that though. I’ve lived in some beautiful places. Really I have. Mostly they stayed that way because women lived there too. Not always, but mostly. I don’t want to be sexist about this, but there’s something about men living together that unleashes the Beast.
Gay guys are okay to live with on that score. They’re hyper-clean. Problem is, they’re also hypersensitive about the gay thing. I had a housemate come out on me once. This guy, Dirk, appeared in the living room at one or two in the morning when I was putting the moves on this girl Nina, who also lived there. There were tear tracks on his face as he stood there staring at us. I was giving this Nina a foot massage at the time, I mean, really giving her the works so I didn’t notice him at first. But he starts snuffling and kind of whimpering and we spin around. I’ve got this girl’s foot in my lap and there’s old Dirk, sort of staring and snuffling and of course I think, uh oh, old Dirk’s got a thing for Nina. The moment’s destroyed as you can imagine, and then Dirk says, ‘I’m gay.’
Whew! What a relief.
Now I can see old Dirk is doing it tough. And I like to think myself a broad-minded sort of guy. So I say to him, ‘Hey. Always thought you were.’ At the time, it passes for male sensitivity. Anyway Nina sits through the horrors of the night with him and I get to go to bed dreaming of her soft, milky white feet. I ask you, who got the raw end of the deal? Funny thing is, Nina and Dirk hated each other. They were always having these knock-down drag-out scream-o-ramas about stuff like whether the tuna chunks went in the cupboard or the fridge.
Nina moved out shortly after that, so this other girl Emma and I got to live with Dirk while he was coming to terms with his sexuality. The trouble wasn’t with him being gay (we did pass a house by-law that banned kissing and fondling on the lounge room couch, but it applied to all sexual orientations). The trouble was that we didn’t care he was gay. So we’d say these brutal things which he’d pick up on his sophisticated gay radar. We’d say, ‘How about cleaning the shower, Dirk?’ and he’d decode it as, ‘You filthy little arse-bandits should all be nailed to a tree.’
Do you think we could get old Dirk to clean that bathroom? No way. He wasn’t buying into any heterofascist sterility conspiracy. ‘Gay men are dying,’ he’d screech at a bemopped Em on cleaning day. He eventually inherited half a million dollars and moved out to set up a gay men’s retreat in northern Queensland. Hope his gay brothers put him straight about the cleaning thing.
Don’t know how Dirk would have coped with finding Jeffrey the junkie all cold and blue and sprawled over the bean bag. An actual dead guy as opposed to the rhetorical gay ones which littered his post-closet conversation. Seeing as Dirk never surfaced before Donahue, I guess it would have been academic even if he and Jeffrey had lived under the same roof. One thing’s for sure. He wouldn’t have cleaned up the mess, so he wouldn’t have found the thousand bucks Jeffrey had stashed away in his room. The cops told us to stay out of there until the science guys had come around to check it out properly but we snuck in about ten minutes after they left. It didn’t take very long to find the cash rolled up and hidden away in the battery compartment of his ghetto blaster and since he’d lied to us about being a junkie and brought a world of hassles down on our home we figured it was only fair that Jeffrey make this posthumous contribution to the kitty.
* * *
Voices of the Damned
Ted
ON LIVING WITH MARXISTS
My friend Ted says Marxists are worse than junkies. You know, you let one in, you let the whole anarcho-syndicalist commune in, and then your little home isn’t the warm and friendly place you escape to at day’s end. It’s a brave challenge to the dominant paradigm of crypto-fascist domestic enslavement. Until the washing has to be done. Then it always seems to be Ted’s turn.
TED NOW WORKS FOR THE DEPARTMENT OF ADMINISTRATIVE AFFAIRS.
* * *
Adam was a full-on Marxist, originally from Broken Hill. He’s probably lecturing in English now. While I was living with him he would interpret everything according to a Marxist line. When we went shopping you’d get a little diatribe on each product. If this were a Marxist society, for instance, one-litre bottles of Spring Valley orange juice would be just the right height to hold dry fettucine. But because this is a capitalist society they make the Spring Valley bottle two and a half centimetres too short to store your dry fettucine. They do this on purpose.
Adam said he wouldn’t read a book if it did not have the word Marxism in the index. He fucked every woman he could get his hands on whilst professing to be a liberated feminist man. Big, flabby, white-bodied old Adam would wander about in a sarong with his willy hanging out because he wasn’t part of any sexually oppressive state mechanism or anything.
He had a big mouldy chair in the corner which he would sit in half-naked, overseeing the room. There was a reading light carefully arranged behind the chair to put him into an enigmatic perspective for anybody who walked into the room. He bought Freddy the tabby cat to sit on the arm of this chair and complete the illusion. Blofeld with his cat, but in a sarong.
Freddy was meant to be an aloof cat, sort of a guardian. But sadly Freddy was very affectionate and he’d interrupt Adam’s reading by purring and headbutting him all the time. He’d also bring grasshoppers into the house to terrify Rodney the gay guy. We came home one night and found Rodney pinned to the door, screaming, with Freddy sitting a few feet in front of him crunching away on a grasshopper.
The cat had no idea Rodney didn’t want it. He must have taken Rodney’s theatrics for excitement, because he followed him around with this twitching corpse until we got home and rescued him.
Rodney was also on the Left but he was in the drug taking, campy gay faction. Rodney had just come from a house in Taringa where they had set aside one day a week as Nude Day. Even visitors had to get their gear off and leave it at the door. One Nude Day they got stoned and decided that it would be completely cool to watch a glass fall off the balcony onto the path below. They dropped this glass, got really excited when it shattered. So the house’s entire crockery collection went over after it and was left in a pile in the driveway. The next morning they didn’t have any bowls for breakfast.
Rodney and Adam didn’t get on too well because Adam was very much into being a bloke. He thought Rodney a little frivolous. Whereas Rodney was all for fighting the revolution aided by copious quantities of drugs and condoms. He thought Adam a little uptight. These two factions then contended for control of the house. The serious young stick insects Stalinist discussion group and the drug-fucked, dick-sucking, no-hopers collective.
Rodney won in the end. Adam moved out because he just couldn’t hack it. The telling blow came when Rodney brought home about seven or eight of his gay drug buddies and they all piled into the bathroom, which was next to Adam’s bedroom. They lit dozens of candles, filled up the bathtub, got naked and got into it. They were stoned out of their heads, yelling and singing awful Billy Bragg songs while Rodney played along on his piano. He’d play for a while then go back to cavorting in the tub. About three in the morning Adam came out of his room to yell at them to shut the fuck up and start acting their age. He bawled them out for a good ten minutes but when he got back to his room three of them were fucking in his bed.
2 THE WILD THING
I can listen to my flatmates have s
ex for ever. I once lurked in a lounge room for a whole weekend on the slim chance that two flatmates were holed up in the upstairs front bedroom, and that if I waited long enough, I might hear them at it. They were young and desperately trying to be cool about it, but the signs had been there for a week –meaningful glances, late night teev, foot massages, the standard routine. And there was no way I was letting them off without some heavy duty, gargoyle-style voyeurism on my part. When you’re young and blameworthy, there’s this circuit in your brain that’s always pushing you to go for the end zone, and I did –made a quick trek to the 7-11, bought both the weekend papers, a fruit loaf, fresh coffee, and camped out in the living room, directly downstairs from the point of maximum creaking and moaning.
* * *
Stella
I walked in on a flatmate one day. His girlfriend was sitting naked on his desk with her legs spread wide apart. I reversed out at top speed really embarrassed. He came and knocked on my door later. He said ‘It’s not what it looks at all. I’m actually a virgin. I’ve had this girlfriend for two years but we don’t do anything. She just comes around once a week, sits herself up on the desk and shows me what I can’t have.’
* * *
Other flatmates looked outside the house for their mistakes. Melissa, you remember her, the credit scam queen, she was a great one for bringing home these rough-headed bastards with tattoos and biker boots and the stench of failure about them. She was a safe sex girl. You’d hear her through the bedroom door and all the way down the hall – ‘Just put it on you fucking dickhead’ –and these guys would grudgingly comply, slap on the latex and wake up in the morning to discover that Melissa spends the best part of her daylight hours asleep. Sleep is her natural state of being. These hellmen would wake up, take in her chainsaw snores and figure they could slip away, sneak out of the house and avoid those always awkward post-coital negotiations. So they’d pull on their gear in careful silence and pad downstairs to where I’m waiting in the lounge room, pretending to read the papers because it is absolutely my favourite thing to catch these guys out. The good mannered ones might throw a grunt at me, but mostly they’d steam through the lounge, heading for the front door and freedom. They’d fling it open. And freeze. Because the house has got these heavy cast iron security gates over all the windows and doors. There’s this great pause as the hellmen realise they are locked in with me, the dog and the girl upstairs. There’s always a few seconds while these ugly bastards stare at the bars. I’m biting my cheeks to keep a straight face when they come back into the lounge. They always say something like, ‘Uh, you got a key …man?’
‘Sorry. Lost mine. Melissa’s got one though.’
I got a taste for this sort of thing in the first place I ever lived out of home – the Boulevarde, an old off-campus unit block in Brisbane. The place had light blue walls which used to sweat at night and shake whenever a truck drove past. I moved in with Warren and Mel, a young couple I knew from my high school days. It was pretty exciting for all of us. They had never been able to sleep together at their parents’ homes, and I’d never been under the same roof as two people I knew, for a fact, were having sex. Parents don’t count, unless you’re a pervert.
It wasn’t all fruit loaf and voyeurism though. I came home one day and found the flat deserted but feeling odd. Things seemed out of place but not in any identifiable way. It took a few minutes before I realised my coffee table had disappeared. When I asked Mel about it, she blushed, muttered something about Warren, and disappeared into her room. The table had always been wobbly, and as Warren was a carpenter’s apprentice I thought he might have taken it off to be fixed. In fact, he had taken it off to the dump. My flatmates had been coupling on my cheap chip-board coffee table that afternoon, and it had collapsed under the onslaught. I privately thought it was kind of cool, but they moved out shortly after. Said something about privacy. Andy, the med student who took over their room, had no such hang-ups. He was happy to let you perch outside his door while he worked his magic inside. He was a handsome cad, but kind of dopey for a future surgeon. He liked to walk around with his food, but would forget he was holding it. You’d watch him tip a plate of spaghetti towards the floor, tipping it and tipping it, and you’d think – ‘Surely he’s going to tip it back the other way soon.’ But no. It’d slide off and hit the carpet and his shoes. Plop. His eyes would go wide, and then after a pause, he’d chuckle just like Goofy. The other med students called him Dr Death. Once, over the course of a fortnight, he invited three different girls to a college ball and only realised what he had done on the day of the event. He cancelled one date, but thought he could keep the others apart. He couldn’t of course, and the third girl turned up anyway. It was a disaster. A few weeks later he bedded all three of them anyway, one after the other. The first girl turned up at three. He was rid of her by four. Then the second arrived, unannounced, with a couple of suitcases and a pure wool sweater she’d knitted for him. I answered the door and she brushed straight past me. ‘I’m moving in,’ she said. Andy had her and the suitcases out of the flat by six. He kept the sweater and gave it to the last girl who showed up just after dinner.
Only ever lived with one other guy like that. Downstairs Ivan. He kept a string of girls going, but apart from roaring like a bear when he took them in the shower, he was a very private kind of guy. The Sisterhood did for him in the end. He was cheating on Sally, his steady girl, a stunning babe. I didn’t understand him at all. She was only allowed around to the house on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights. The other nights were reserved for study, he told her. In fact, they were reserved for noisy, vertical sex in our bathroom with a succession of nameless nightclubbing bimbos who used their ankles for earrings and left before dawn.
Gina and Veronica, the girls of the house, put Sally straight on the whole deal when she came around one afternoon. She was in a state. She’d heard things around town. The three of them fronted Downstairs Ivan that night. Said they had a few bones to pick with him. I backed off straight away, thinking, ‘Uh oh, here it comes,’ and it did – Sally and the house girls nailed Downstairs in the hallway and unleashed the most frightening bitchkrieg I’ve ever seen in ten years of share housing. It went all night, like the bombing of Dresden. I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard when they finished with him. They worked him over so badly that Sally had no choice but to clear her stuff out of his room and refuse to speak to him ever again, despite the fact she adored him like the girl-with-a-mind-of-her-own in all of the Elvis Presley films. There was no resisting the power of the Sisterhood –Gina and Veronica told her about the bimbos, the bathroom, the moaning at 3.00am. They told her she was too good for him, she could have any man, she should teach him a lesson, she should cut up his clothes, get a new boyfriend, move interstate and put it about that he was a dud root. All of which she did. She had no choice really.
The whole time, I was sitting in the cramped little airing cup-board I used for a writing room. Downstairs would occasionally appear at my door shaking his head and scratching his Judd Nelson goatee. ‘She dropped me,’ he’d say. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t come at the idea. She didn’t even want to hear his side of the story. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why?’ Who was to say? Not me, that’s for sure. He moved out a week or two later. He shook my hand before he left, but pointedly ignored Gina and Veronica. They didn’t care. There was real loathing between them. Actually, there was some real loathing from me too when we totalled the prick’s contribution to our phone bill. One thousand dollars. Most of it in desperate, crazed international phonecalls, the last three days he was there.
Other than Warren and Mel getting married, and me being entertained, I can’t think of anything good that has ever come of the sex lives of my numerous flatmates. Friendships crash and burn all the time because of sex, so it’s not surprising that the tenuous equilibrium of a share house can be disturbed by it. I lost a great house in Canberra when one flatmate developed a case of unrequited love for another. Zoe and M
ichael.
By day, Michael was a salaryman, a marketing manager with General Dynamics. He favoured the Country Road catalogue. Little glasses, the tweed jacket, the tie just right, the clouds of after-shave trailing behind him, killing insects like napalm. Michael was an instant taste guy. He moved in, needed some furniture, went to Ikea and whacked down the Visa. Bought the big black cupboard, the big potted plant –which died from lack of water – and the big, big, big black bed for entertaining. Ladies were enticed into the lotus trap by the lilting strains of Madame Butterfly on his big black stereo.
Zoe had an ex-boyfriend who used to beat up on her. She missed him terribly. Don’t ask me why. She’d get distressed over this loser and bring out the Simon and Garfunkel tapes. She’d drop a couple of Panadols, take her ghetto blaster into the living room about three in the morning, lie down and howl along with Bridge Over Troubled Water while I was four feet away in the next room, trying to sleep. After a fistful of sleepless nights I resolved that if I ever got to meet this ex-boyfriend, this tragic, hapless, girl-beating oaf, I was going to kick his teeth in, if only for the tapes and the sound of Zoe snoring on the floor.
He Died with a Felafel in His Hand Page 2